


A Gentlemen's Agreement - Pt. 4

by TheNightComesDown



Series: A Gentlemen's Agreement [4]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Queen AU, Queen Fic, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 09:37:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18118154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightComesDown/pseuds/TheNightComesDown
Summary: John learns about your troubled past but decides to give things a go anyways.





	A Gentlemen's Agreement - Pt. 4

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for your patience as I worked on the next part of an older fic before getting to this one!

The car ride from John’s place to your flat was eerily silent, with neither of you sure what to say to the other. You stared out the passenger window, avoiding his concerned glances. Back at his flat, you’d told him the truth: that you had a brother who had been in and out of prison for a decade, that your father was currently in prison, that your mother had a severe mental illness and couldn’t care for herself anymore. Instead of being overwhelmed or freaked out, John had pulled you into a hug and held you.

“We’ve all got our challenges, love,” he had murmured, rocking you gently from side to side as though you were dancing. Somehow, the motion was calming. 

“Not all of us work at a strip club to deal with our issues, though,” you had replied. John just laughed and stroked your hair affectionately. Now as he wove through central London’s evening traffic, John reached for your hand, gently rubbing the back of it with his thumb in an attempt to provide even a small bit of comfort. 

“Turn here?” he asked, nodding toward the traffic light ahead. Pedestrians wandered across the intersection, many on their way to the pub for the evening, or returning home after a long day at work. 

“Right turn here, and a left two blocks up,” you confirmed. “You’ll know it when you see it.” 

As it turned out, he couldn’t miss it; several squad cars were parked on the street in front of the building. John pulled up behind a rusted Ford, whose back bumper appeared to be attached by only duct tape. From the smoking bench outside the building, your neighbours watched suspiciously as you and John exited the vehicle and walked up toward the front entrance of the block of flats. 

“Thanks for inviting the coppers to come by twice in a week, Y/N,” the man called out to you, glaring at you in annoyance. “God knows we were due for a visit.” You mouthed an apology as you walked past. 

“Not overly fond of the police, are they?” John inquired, placing a warm hand against the small of your back. 

“There’s not a person in this building who doesn’t have a record,” you explained, “so no one here really appreciates the attention.” The door of the building was propped open with a splintering doorstop despite the notice in the window that read ‘KEEP DOOR CLOSED AT ALL TIMES”. The building management hated having to deal with squatters tucked away beneath the staircase, but the sign hadn’t proven to be particularly useful as of yet. 

“Does that include you?” John wondered, his expression free of judgement. 

“You’re asking if I have a record?” you clarified. He nodded sheepishly, hoping not to have offended you by asking. The police were in your apartment and were likely to ask about past issues with the law, so there was no use in lying. “I got into some shit as a teen and in the first year or two after I finished school, so yes,” you acknowledged. 

“Sorry,” John apologized, avoiding your eyes. “Didn’t mean to pry.” 

“You had to bring me all the way here,” you reminded him, “so you deserve to know what you’ve walked into.” The lift was out of order yet again so you took to the stairs, with John following close behind. The stairs were steep enough that you were glad the building had only three storeys; your flat was located at the end of the hall on the top floor. 

The door was swung wide open when you arrived, and as Judy had indicated, your flat had been torn apart. Papers were strewn about on the floor, furniture had been overturned, and the wood of the door was in pieces, a clear sign of forced entry. An officer in uniform leaned against the wall just inside the door, enjoying the cigarette he had dangling from his lips. When you stepped in, he stood up tall and extended a hand towards you to prevent you from going any further. 

“Excuse me, this is a crime sce—” he started, but his words faltered as he recognized you. 

“Inspector Greaves,” you nodded in greeting. A balding man in his late forties, Officer Greaves was very familiar to you. He’d been serving the community of Poplar for well over twenty years, and had been the arresting officer for several of your brother and father’s arrests over the years. 

“Y/N,” he addressed you, “didn’t realize you were still living in this building; I’d hoped you had...” 

“Found somewhere less dodgy to live?” you suggested, filling in the gap in his sentence. He shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “Not making enough money to make the move just yet.” He tapped his cigarette against the glass ashtray beside your door, nodding with understanding. 

“Any ideas what happened here?” Greaves asked, indicating the mess behind him. “I heard that Michael skipped out on rehab and came by the other night…” 

“My guess is as good as yours,” you admitted. “He picked the lock, though, so I don’t think the door was his doing.” John coughed uncomfortably behind you, drawing your attention for a moment. When you met his eyes, he tilted his head towards a large bloodstain on the carpet beside the shabby sofa in your sitting room. 

“Whew,” you whistled, taking in the entirety of the disaster that had overtaken your flat. “I don’t even know what to say about this.” 

“Well, you’re definitely coming back to my place tonight, Y/N,” John insisted. “This’ll take a while to get sorted, I’m sure.” Inspector Greaves, now noticing the man behind you, held out a hand towards John. 

“Inspector Edward Greaves, Metropolitan Police,” he introduced himself. 

“John Deacon,” John replied, grasping the man’s hand firmly. “I’m a friend of Y/N’s.” Inspector Greaves looked between the two of you, analyzing John’s greying hair as he attempted to discern the nature of the relationship. You made no attempt to explain, as it really wasn’t any of his business. 

“Are you comfortable answering some questions with your _friend_ here, Y/N?” Greaves asked, tilting his head to the side as he posed the question. 

“I don’t mind,” you answered. “He could use a bit of colour in his life.” John covered his mouth with a hand to conceal his laughter; this day had held more than enough excitement already. 

“Alright,” Inspector Greaves said hesitantly. “When was the last time you were here in your flat?” 

“I was here all morning, left around 1:00.” 

“And after that?” Your gaze flickered over to John, wondering how much detail to give. 

“I took the bus to meet up with John.” His fingers brushed gently against your back and trailed up your spine. You knew he did this as a way to reassure you, but it was both a bit ticklish and slightly distracting. 

“How long were you out with Mr., ehm, Mr. Deacon?” Greaves wondered, jotting notes down on a pad of paper with a pen whose cap had clearly been gnawed on. “And where did this meeting occur?” 

“All afternoon and evening,” John chimed in. “First at Brockwell Park for a walk, and then back to my flat because I was feeling a bit ill from the heat.” Greaves raised his eyebrows as John mentioned returning to his flat. 

“Anyone else see you at Mr. Deacon’s residence?” 

“I sure hope not,” you said under your breath. 

“What’s that?” Greaves inquired. “Sorry, didn’t quite catch what you—” 

“We were alone,” you replied sharply, annoyed by this line of questioning. “Had lasagna for dinner and sex for dessert, if you need to know that as well.” You hadn’t been home, and you certainly hadn’t made a mess of your own flat, but it felt to you as if he thought this was your own doing. 

“Alright then,” the man stammered, his face flushing red. “Moving on.” 

* * * * * 

The remainder of the interview with Inspector Greaves was more helpful; his best guess was that your brother had managed to make trouble for himself in the last day or so, and had returned to your apartment in search of money, which appeared to have been successful: to your great annoyance, the tip money you’d received on Saturday night was missing from the jar beneath the sink where you always kept it. 

“That bastard,” you had sighed upon the discovery of your missing cash; this wasn’t the first time Mike had “borrowed” money, and it was highly unlikely that he’d be paying you back. 

The matter of the smashed-in door and the blood on the carpet was less clear; the blood would have to be taken in for testing, but even then they could only tell if it was or wasn’t Michael’s blood type, A+. Greaves’ working theory was that Michael had been followed and attacked in your apartment, and either escaped his assailant, or had been abducted. The blood on the carpet didn’t seem significant enough for it to have been a fatal wound at the time, but the idea of your brother being out in the world and bleeding like that was concerning, to say the least. 

“We’ve called every hospital in London with his description,” Greaves assured you, “so if he goes in for treatment, we’ll find him.” 

“And if he bleeds to death behind a skip in some alley?” you demanded, your eyes growing blurry with tears. “What then?” John came forward and drew you into his arms, making eye contact with Inspector Greaves over your shoulder. 

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” the man offered, knowing it wasn’t enough. After you’d calmed down, you signed a stack of forms the police required, and were allowed to collect some personal effects to take back to John’s. On your way out, Inspector Greaves passed you his business card, instructing you to call if you had any questions, or if you heard anything more from neighbours or other contacts about the incident. John scribbled his phone number onto a scrap of paper from his pocket and gave it to the inspector, in case he needed to reach you. 

“I know I’ve never been a welcome sight in your home, Y/N,” he spoke, “but I want you to know that you can trust me. I’m on your side, and I want to bring Michael back to where he can get the help he needs.” He shook John’s hand again, and walked you to the end of the hall, loitering at the top of the stairs until he heard the heavy metal door slam at the base of the stairs. 

John guided you out of the building, offering to carry your bag down to the car. You took his hand in yours instead; content to sling the bag over your shoulder. The pair at the smoking bench had disappeared, replaced by an elderly man and his small dog, which growled at you suspiciously. John leaned down and patted the pup on his head, silencing him in seconds. 

Turning sideways in your seat, you observed him as he drove. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift, he appeared content and comfortable. At the next traffic light, he fiddled around in the centre console, pulling out a cassette tape and inserting it into the slot below the radio dials. Otis Redding’s “The Dock of the Bay” came through the speakers, and John hummed along with the melody, allowing your mind to drift. 

“Are you going to say anything, or just stare at me?” John asked after a few minutes, squeezing your leg gently. “You’re very quiet.” 

“Just thinking,” you smiled vaguely, meeting his green-grey eyes for only a moment. “You’re off to Switzerland for the rest of the week on Wednesday.” The thought had been prodding at you since he had mentioned you staying the night, and had begun to concern you even more after you’d seen the state of your flat. There was no way the place would be inhabitable again by Wednesday. 

“You’re not staying somewhere else,” he murmured, anticipating your train of thought. “Y/N, you can stay at my place as long as you like.” 

“John, I can’t be there if you aren’t,” you protested, crossing your arms over your chest. “I could be a thief, or the kind of girl to throw a wild party, for all you know about me.” These ideas appeared to have amused him, because he let out a hearty laugh. 

“You don’t strike me as dishonest,” he countered, smiling devilishly, “and I think you’ll have a hard time throwing a party if you’re working late every night.” He wasn’t wrong; you could have chosen a stronger argument. “But if you don’t want to stay with me, I wouldn’t be upset. I can always get you a hotel room.” 

“That’s worse,” you frowned. “You can’t spend your money on me.” John pulled the car over along the side of the road, allowing him to give you his full attention. It had grown dark outside since you’d left your flat in Poplar, and could only see John by the light of the streetlamp he had parked beneath. 

“I thought we agreed that I could, so long as it was reasonable,” he exclaimed indignantly. Rolling your eyes, you extended a hand and cradled his lightly stubbled cheek. 

“John, that was before,” you reminded him. “Things are different now.” 

“Of course they are,” he grinned. “Now it’s acceptable for me to spend money on you. Isn’t that what a man’s supposed to do for his lover?” You couldn’t help but laugh at his comment; it was in moments like these that John seemed much older than he looked. 

“Is that what I am, John?” you flirted, tugging on his collar and drawing him into a kiss. “Your lover?” He smiled against your mouth, cupping the back of your neck to keep you from pulling away. 

“Who do you think Fred wrote ‘Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy’ about?” John teased between kisses. “Certainly wasn’t Brian.” You erupted into a fit of laughter at this, and rested your face in the crook of his neck as you attempted to regain your composure. As John nuzzled his chin against your cheek, a loud tapping noise came from his window. You jumped back, startled, and saw that a police constable had knocked on the window with the butt of his flashlight. 

“What can I do for you, sir?” John asked, rolling his window down. The constable shone his flashlight into the vehicle, making you wince as the bright beam hit your eyes. Behind John’s vehicle, a white Ford Sierra was stopped, its blue light bar flashing. 

“Can I ask why you’ve pulled over?” The constable wondered, resting his arm on the top of the vehicle as he peered around the back seat. 

“We were having a discussion,” John replied, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, “and I wanted to make sure she had my full attention.” The constable raised an eyebrow sceptically and adjusted his peaked cap. 

“Ma’am, may I see your driving license, please?” he requested. 

“She’s not driving,” John objected as you reached for your purse. “Why do you need to see her license?” 

“Sir, it’s within my authority to ask a passenger for their license,” the officer responded sharply. 

“That’s fine, but I’d like to know why you need it,” John repeated, colour rising in his cheeks. 

“John, love, it’s fine,” you assured him, keeping your frustration in check. “I don’t mind.” You passed your license to the officer, who inspected it with his flashlight. He glanced at your birthdate, frowning in disbelief that you had been born in 1965. You certainly didn’t look old enough to be kissing a man John’s age, he thought. 

“Sir, I’m going to let you move on,” he responded brusquely, returning your ID, “but I’d ask that you reserve intimate displays of affection for a more private location.” John gritted his teeth angrily, watching him in the rear view mirror as the officer returned to his vehicle. 

“What a prick,” you scoffed, shaking your head. “That was barely anything. Not sure why he felt the need to break it up.” 

“Barely anything?” John inquired, shooting you a curious glace. With a sly grin, you peered through the back window, watching as the police car shot past you. You leaned over the centre console, brushing your lips against John’s ear. 

“Take me home, and I’ll show you something worth interrupting,” you whispered. 

* * * * * 

**THE NEXT DAY**

As the sun crept higher in the early morning sky, slivers light filtered through the heavy curtains hanging over the windows, encouraging your body to wake up. John snoozed on his stomach beside you, one arm comfortably slung across your body. You didn’t dare to move for fear that you would wake him up. The digital clock on the nightstand proclaimed that it was nearly 10:00AM, but you figured that this wasn’t an unusual time for anyone in the entertainment industry to sleep in until. 

“Are you watching me sleep?” John mumbled beside you, nuzzling his face against his pillow. “I can feel your eyes on me.” You giggled, tucking yourself in closer to his body. 

“Watching people sleep is creepy,” you responded. “Do I seem creepy to you?” The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as he shook his head, and you leaned in to plant a kiss on his lightly stubbled cheek. 

“What kind of a good morning kiss was that?” John demanded playfully, opening his eyes. “I know I’m old, but I’m not your grandfather, darling.” With a chuckle, you rested a hand on the back of his head and pressed your lips against his. Although you both tasted like sleep, the warmth of his mouth on yours made you shiver. 

“Better?” you wondered, pulling away with a smile. John nodded enthusiastically, His expression was adorably squinty as his eyes adjusted to the daylight. 

“I suppose so,” he groaned, rolling onto his back and stretching his arms high above his head. His fingers brushed the top of the headboard, and with a satisfied sigh, he drew you closer to him. “I’ll have to be careful around you, or I might change my mind about Switzerland. The boys don’t really need a bassist, do they?” 

“I’m sure they’d disagree,” you murmured, “but we had already planned to go out for coffee today, so we still have some time together before you leave.” 

“We did, didn’t we?” John recalled. “Can we do breakfast together as well? I’m starving, and could really go for a fry-up, or maybe an omelette.” 

“I’m a horrific cook,” you told him, “and I’m quite certain you’re out of eggs and bread. So unless you have someone that brings you groceries, we’re going to have to go out if you want breakfast.” John hummed thoughtfully, chewing at his lower lip as he thought about what to do. 

“There’s a nice place that does brunch until noon just a few minutes from here,” he suggested. “If you’re willing to get out of bed, that is.” It was a tough choice, really; with the sun brightening the room and the duvet pulled up to your waist, you were quite comfortable. 

“If you let me pay for breakfast, I might be convinced to get up,” you said decidedly. “If not, I’m content to keep starving.” John huffed indignantly, miffed with the idea. 

“That doesn’t seem fair at all,” he frowned, turning on his side towards you. “I have all this money sitting around, but you’re going to pay for my beans and toast?” He toyed with the waistband of your knickers, resting his hand on your exposed hipbone. 

“Why, does this place serve gold beans and diamond-encrusted toast?” John rolled his eyes, but pressed a kiss against your forehead in agreement. 

“Fine.” 

“Be a darling and join me in the shower, will you?” you asked, kicking the duvet off. John smirked as you stood up, watching as you adjusted the t-shirt you’d borrowed from him. You’d brought your own pyjamas, but had snuck a shirt from his cupboard because the woodsy scent of John’s cologne clung to the fabric. 

“I think that could be arranged,” he agreed amiably. “Although, an old chap like me can’t reach his back so well anymore, so you might have to help me.” You looked over your shoulder at him, shaking your head. 

“John, stop calling yourself old,” you chastised, ambling around the bed to stand beside him. “You’re not even 40, but you make it sound as if you’re ancient.” He sat up, allowing you to put your arms around him in a comforting hug. 

“That constable from the Met wanted to check your license last night to make sure you were of age, and not snogging a predator,” he said sourly. “So forgive me if I’m a bit sensitive about my grey hair and creaky knees.” 

You placed a knee on the edge of the bed and swung your other knee over John’s lap, straddling him innocently. Holding his face in your hands, you leaned your forehead against his. 

“Fuck what other people think, alright?” you instructed. “I’m a grown woman, and you’re a grown man. We could be with whomever we wanted, but we found each other, so fuck everyone else.” 

“I don’t want to fuck anyone else,” he said softly, pulling you against him in a tight embrace. He didn’t move to put his hands beneath your shirt, or initiate anything; John just held you, enjoying your warmth and presence. 

“I don’t either,” you breathed, resting your chin on his shoulder. “But I do want to rinse off at some point, because I’m feeling a bit sweatier than I like.” 

“That can be arranged,” John hummed, shifting his body and swinging his feet over the edge of the mattress. “Hold on, love.” You laughed as he stood up, swaying as he adjusted your weight in his arms. 

“Careful, old man,” you joked, “wouldn’t want to put out your back!” 

“Hit me where it hurts, why don’t you,” he groaned. “I reached down to pull my bass out of its case last year and pulled a muscle. I could barely bend over for a month.” 

“I’ll try not to wiggle too much,” you promised. “Wouldn’t want to keep you from Switzerland. The world demands another Queen album.” 

* * * * * 

**THAT EVENING**

Moments after you’d returned to John’s flat after brunch, the phone rang. John answered it, knowing it was probably one of his bandmates. Within 5 minutes, your plans for the day had changed. Roger wanted to know if John was free to come over for dinner and discuss plans about their time in Montreaux. After quickly consulting you, John agreed to the invitation. Your shift started at 10, but things would be wrapped up by then, you were sure. 

“What are they going to think of me?” you asked as you slipped into the one decent frock you’d thought to bring. “And how are you going to explain where we met if they ask?” John frowned thoughtfully; he hadn’t thought of that. 

“We could say we met at the park?” he suggested. “That’s innocent enough, and not a complete lie, because we _have_ been at the park together.” 

“You’re adorable,” you chuckled, kissing his cheek before applying your lipstick, a red-purple wine shade you regularly wore. “Do you go to feed the ducks by yourself often, John?” 

“Oh, hush,” he scolded, examining himself in the mirror as he buttoned his shirt. “We don’t need to elaborate that much.” He turned to you, holding his arms out and turning around in a circle. 

“Lovely,” you nodded approvingly. The sleeves of his shirt, a collared blue button-up, were rolled to his elbows. Pressing your lips together uncertainly, you reached out and undid the top button, exposing just a bit of his neck. “There.” 

“This is how I get the girls, then, is it?” he laughed, pulling you towards him. With an arm around your shoulder, he stepped sideways, allowing you to see the two of you together in the mirror. 

“Is this too short, do you think?” you questioned, playing with the bottom skirt of your frock. “I don’t want them to think I’m a slag.” 

“The hem’s almost at your knees,” he pointed out. “You look lovely, Y/N. I promise everything will be fine, so there’s no need to worry.” You glanced up at him sceptically, but knew he was right; this was by far the most appropriate frock you owned, and was longer than what a lot of women your age were wearing these days. After grabbing your handbag from the hook at the front door, you nodded to John that you were ready to go. 

The drive was around 40 minutes, and you arrived at the Taylor residence in Godalming, Surrey, just before 5:00. John opened your door for you, and laced his fingers through yours before guiding you to the front door. 

“This is unbelievable,” you marvelled, taking in the grandeur of the place. “I don’t think you can call this a house; it’s really more of a mansion.” 

“Rog and I have never really agreed when it comes to living situation,” John admitted. “Not to say that my previous home wasn’t much bigger than we needed, but this is a bit…” 

“Excessive?” you suggested, following John up the staircase to the door. 

“To say the least,” he smiled. “I’m much happier in my flat, to tell you the truth.” John rang the bell and stepped back, giving your hand a quick squeeze. “Deep breath, love, it’s just my friends.” A moment later, the door swung open to reveal a young woman who looked to be about your age. 

“Come in, come in,” she invited, waving you forward. “Roger’ll be down in just a minute, he’s trying to find his glasses.” John kissed her cheek, and held out a hand to introduce you. 

“Y/N, this is Roger’s partner, Debbie Leng. Debbie, this is my friend, Y/N.” The blonde extended her hand, which you grasped in a friendly handshake. 

“Thank you for having us here,” you exclaimed, looking about the entryway. “You have a beautiful home.” Debbie smiled, appearing a bit embarrassed. 

“It’s certainly got plenty of room for the kids to run around,” she acknowledged. A series of happy shrieks resounded through the house, indicating that there were indeed children within. 

“You have children?” you asked, trying to mask your surprise. This woman looked so young, and certainly too thin, to have had children. Judging by her poised posture and perfect makeup, you guessed Debbie to be a model or an actress. 

“Roger’s, from a previous marriage,” she explained. “Felix is 10, and Rory is 4. Quite a pair, the two of them!” 

“I’m sorry,” you apologized quickly, embarrassed by your mistake. “I didn’t mean to assume—” 

“No, don’t worry about it!” she insisted, waving a hand dismissively. “Come with me, I’ll show you around the place. Oh, and John, Brian’s just in the dining room.” Debbie put a hand on your shoulder and steered you down the hall towards the sitting room. You looked to John, who was attempting to hide a smirk. 

“See you in a bit, love,” he called after you. Debbie guided you through the house, indicating points of interest along the way. It was overwhelming in comparison to John’s simple flat. 

“I’ve never been anywhere like this,” you said shyly, nervous to touch anything for fear of damaging something expensive. “How do you…” 

“Live here?” Debbie finished, smiling at you knowingly. “It was a bit overwhelming at first, but I got used to it after a while.” She sat down on the sitting room sofa and patted the seat beside her. “I’m glad John brought you, though. Us girls need to stick together.” 

“Us girls?” you asked, not understanding. 

“The girlfriends,” she explained patiently. “Anita’s a fair bit older than me, but you must be around my age. When were you born?” 

“1965,” you answered. “Anita is Brian’s partner?” 

“Right,” she replied. “Freddie’s husband Jim tends to stick with the boys, so it’ll probably just be you and me when we go to events and parties and such.” 

“Oh,” you nodded, unsure of how to respond. You and John had only just started spending time together. It had been a whirlwind over the past few days, and there hadn’t been any time to even consider the thought of attending parties, or even concerts. 

“Where did you and John meet?” she inquired, playing with her short blonde bob. “Tell me everything.” 

“Well, we met at the park,” you started, choosing to use the story you and John had invented, “and it hasn’t been that long, really. We hit it off, and it’s been really…quiet, actually. My life is loud and fast, as I’m sure things are for him when it comes to shows and recording, but it’s nice to just relax.” 

“What do you do?” 

“I’m a…barmaid,” you said awkwardly, realizing how silly it must sound to someone like Debbie. “What about you?” 

“I do a fair bit of modelling,” she shared, confirming your prediction. “But hey, there’s no need to be ashamed of your job. I’m sure you’re great at what you do. Pretty late nights, though, hey?” 

Footsteps sounded in the hall adjacent to the sitting room, and a blonde man with tousled hair stepped into the room, adjusting a pair of tortoiseshell glasses on his face. 

“Finally found the buggers,” he announced, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his denim trousers. “One of the kids must have moved them, you know how they’re always—oh.” He stopped, surprised to see an unfamiliar woman seated beside his partner. 

“Roger, this is John’s _friend_ , Y/N,” Debbie said by way of introduction. “She’s come to join us for dinner tonight, which John mentioned over the phone but clearly you forgot.” Roger frowned, staring at you in confusion. You weren’t at all what he’d expected John’s partner to look like. 

“I could swear I’ve met you before,” he puzzled, “but I can’t recall when or where; it’s lovely to meet you, though.” He turned towards the door and shouted down the hall for John and Brian, who arrived in the room shortly after. John walked up to you and put a protective arm around your shoulders, seeing right away that you seemed a bit on edge. 

“Everything alright?” he murmured, kissing the side of your head. 

“Roger said he recognizes me from somewhere,” you whispered. “I’ve definitely served him at the club before.” John raised his eyebrows, but said nothing; there wasn’t much to say. If Roger remembered you, that was that. 

“This must be the lovely Y/N,” exclaimed Brian, whose mass of brown curls bobbed comically as he moved to stand in front of you. “John’s just told me about—” 

Brian’s words faltered as he met your eyes. While Roger’s memory wasn’t the best at times, Queen’s guitarist recognized you right away. 

“You work at the club,” he realized aloud, not thinking before he spoke. “You tend bar there, right?” His comment caught both Roger’s and Debbie’s attention, but John shook his head, pleading with Brian to save his questions for later. 

“What club, Bri?” Roger questioned, not picking up on John’s hint to be quiet. He squinted, peering at you through his glasses to get a better look at you that he had before. “Wait, do you mean that place in Soho?” 

“What place?” Debbie asked curiously. “Have I been there?” 

“Definitely not,” Roger and Brian choired. 

“I’d never have expected this of you, John,” Roger laughed, shaking his head. “But hey, a man’s got to meet a girl somewhere.” You felt your face grow hot as your cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. 

“Where’s your loo?” you burst out, looking at Debbie for help. 

“Down the hall to your left, love,” she answered, frowning with concern. “Is everything alright, Y/N?” You pulled away from John and pushed past Brian, hurrying to the toilet. Once you’d made it in the door, you closed it quickly behind you and slumped to the ground, bursting into tears. Your breath came in sobs, and hot tears rolled down your cheeks. 

This is exactly what you’d been afraid of: you’d realized yesterday that this thing with John was never going to work out. He was a rock legend, and you were a barmaid with a criminal record and a messed-up family, for God’s sake. What had you expected? As you wiped away your tears, a small voice caught your attention. 

“Are you okay, lady?” Sitting on the toilet was a little girl, her legs not quite long enough to reach the floor. You hadn’t noticed her before, because the room was so large. Now, you sat on the floor of a mansion’s bathroom, crying over a man you’d known for less than a week, while locking eyes with a four-year-old on the toilet; you’d been in stranger situations, but none came to mind. The past few days had been overwhelming, with your brother showing up at your flat, the unexplained break-in, and now all this with John. 

“Sorry,” you exclaimed, scrambling to your feet. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I didn’t realize someone was in here.” 

“It’s okay,” the girl assured you, swinging her skinny legs back and forth. Her hair was pulled into two short pigtails, and she wore a Strawberry Shortcake tank top. “Wanna be my friend?” she wondered. You sniffed hard to clear your nose and tried not to laugh, but couldn’t help it. 

“Sure,” you giggled, wiping your eyes again. “I could use a friend right about now.”

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that a lot of things happened here, but I swear it will all make sense in the end. Just trust me...


End file.
